Rescue and Escape
by ConstantTraveller
Summary: In the end, was his Brynhildr really worth rescuing? Oneshot, Django/Broomhilda, Romance.


**Disclaimer: **Since I own nothing, I believe that I must not own this.

**Summary: **In the end, was his Brynhildr really worth rescuing? Oneshot, Django/Broomhilda, Romance.

**AN: **I really loved this movie. I thought it was excellent and yet another excellent creation from an excellent director and an excellent cast. I really hope it wins a lot of awards and earns a lot of money. Are you getting the hint yet that I liked it? Well, I did!

Please make sure that you let me know if you enjoyed the story. People generally don't seem to realise how much of an impact a single review has on, but believe me, every single one is cherished.

~~~~~~~~~~ DU ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"What was her name again?"

"Who?"

"The princess," he asks, trying to avoid eye contact. It's easy to do considering the steep hill they are riding up and the rocks that tumble underneath their horses hooves. They should dismount but they're exhausted and cold and the horses can cope. He regrets not buying a fur coat, especially as the Doctor seems so happy with his.

"Byrnhildr."

"Brynhildr," he says and lets the flavour of the name dance in his mouth. For some reason, it's not as nice as they way he says Broomhilda's name.

There is a pause, only broken by the sound of the harnesses dangling to the side and the howl of the wind as they crest the hill. They are suddenly assaulted by the cold gusts from the valley floor and Django grabs his hat as it threatens to fly off his head.

"You wish to know more about her?" Asks the doctor, tentatively, after surveying their descent and the valley. Django's horse slips and his hands tighten on the reigns instinctively before relaxing at the ongoing steady pace.

"What did she look like?"

The man lets out a breath and he can see that the man's mind is far away, "What did she look like? Hm, that is a hard one. It is not a story that we read but more a story that we hear and remember. How she looks is sometimes up to the storyteller, although I have always had an image of her that I do enjoy."

"What's she like?"

"To me?"

"Yeah."

"Tall. Pale. Certainly not slight or skinny. She would be muscular and strong and fierce with hair that shines in the light like a crown. She would be worth the rescue, that is for sure. A true European woman, not like the waif creatures we have now. Do not mistake me, I enjoy a beautiful creature but the cold of my land is colder than this and only the strongest can survive it. Unless you are rich, of course."

He nods and gently kicks the horse down the hill, clutching at the harness tightly. He's not used to hills; after all, he's only starting riding. The Doctor seems hardly concerned so Django hides his nervousness and lets his face fall into a perfect mask of nothing.

"Your Broomhilda," asks the Doctor, "What is she like?"

He smiles, thinking of her face, the softness of her arms, the skin that he likes to touch on her thigh. He thinks of her running with him, through the brambles and the trees and how the terror in her face still drove him mad with lust. He thinks of her screams and the blood on her back and how proud he was of her for living.

"She's better than Brynhildr," he says, honestly. The fact that she is real, breathing and alive is more of a draw to him than a dead legend of a woman. She's circled by fire all the time; only it's not the fire of a dragon but the fire of white men and their dogs.

"Then by all means, describe her!" Says the Doctor, with a grin on his face. The air mists around him when he speaks but he looks happy and amused, something he was used to seeing with the man. "And do so with gusto, as if you were telling me a great story of her."

"She's very beautiful," he says, uncertainly. He's never been asked to talk other than a 'yes, sir', or 'no, sir.' He wouldn't even know what to say about her if he had the chance. Everything that he knows is in his head. He doesn't know the words to make them seem real to the other man.

So, he lets the silence fall across them because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Okay," says the Doctor, smiling as if he doesn't mind (although Django knows that he minds and that he probably misses the storytellers in his family and being able to talk about his people). "Perhaps you are not born to be a great storyteller. It is no loss, truly, with an aim like yours. But it would be nice to know of who I am helping you to rescue."

"This Brynhildr," he asks, "did she live with –"

"Sigurd."

"-Sigurd after she was rescued?"

The Doctor's face shadows, even though the falling sun that has begun to dip below the crest of the opposing valley wall has already darkened his face. "Oh, like all of our legends, the ending is not quite so simple as optimistic people hope."

"So they don't end up happy together?"

"No. Not really."

He nods, feeling surprisingly disappointed about their ending. He liked the idea of a story where everything worked out, as they should.

"That isn't to say that she wasn't worth rescuing. Future unhappiness shouldn't stop a man from grasping for present happiness. I would not be doing my job very well if that was true. I could not exist if I let every future death hang over my mind like a dark cloud."

He nods but he still feels disappointed. He doesn't know much about stories or legends, the whites don't tell them to black babies and the black mama's are too long gone from their country to remember them. He had hoped that they were all nice things to hear, stories that made you feel better after a day of being abused and used like an animal.

When they've reached the bottom of the hill and are nestled in the depth of the valley, he starts a fire and stokes it with a twig to make it roar. They pass a flask of whiskey between them and talk about nothing in particular, although Django's mind is on Brynhildr and her man. They eat beans from a can and damper from a flat rock and, although not full, he's comfortable by the time they lay down for sleep.

When the snores of the other man rise into the silence, he sits next to the fire and stares at it. When he looks up, he imagines that behind the fire is Broomhilda, her eyes laughing and taunting and asking him to leap across the flames. She's naked, bare breasted and lovely in the night. He's ready to dash through the flames, to hoist her over his shoulder and run into the night like a madman.

But the vision is lost and there is no woman in front of him. Just the Doctor, his breath misting above him as he sleeps away the day's pain.

The flames flicker.

He sleeps.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DU ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They travel so far that they lose their way.

They simply ride and sleep, ride some more and sleep even less. They eat when they can, bathe at every stream and walk when their thighs cramp.

Soon the forest changes, as well as the animals. There is still the persistent howling of the wolves that follows them through the night. But the land is different to what he knows. More arid, bearer and much less threatening.

The nights grow colder, the days hotter.

They shelter under the open sky and sprawl across each other lazily. They lay so close that there isn't room for a pebble between them, which both agree is still too far. He traces her scars in the night and she cries for the horrors she's seen. He's silent when the thoughts creep up on him, when he remembers the sound (it's always the sounds). She stays close and gives him her body, which he receives gratefully.

They're happy and in love. They catch each other's hands, they kiss for no reason and they sprint to the streams and creeks naked, laughing until they dive in and swim to each other like sirens. They joke with each other, tease with their eyes and flirt like children just come from church.

And yet, Django still looks behind.

He still stops on hilltops and watches the way that they have come. He still fingers his gun at the snapping of a twig and rises at odd times in the night. He still bursts into gallops across open plains, with a persistence in his speed that speaks of more than just a joy-ride.

She's patient and adoring, and doesn't complain when the saddle rubs her thighs raw or when the horse starts to foam at the mouth. She doesn't mind that she's starving half to death, or that she still can't sleep without seeing their faces. She'll be with him to the end, as he would be for her.

And yet, he still watches behind him.

Broomhilda begins to realise, as they weave around another town, instead of going straight through, that he doesn't wait for the white men. She knows him like the back of her hand, inside and out. She knows that he is past fear for their whips and guns and explosives. She knows that the way he watches the horizon is not to outrun the enemy.

He's waiting for someone.

A man, she knows. The man that she's seen. An odd man, she thought. A man that talked much too fancy for the company that he kept. A man, who, if she guessed correctly, had saved her Django's life and, as a result, saved hers.

Dr. King Schultz, he had introduced himself. The same man who had sat in an empty room with her and not moved to untie his breeches. The same man who had spoke a language that made her heart ache to hear. A language that she had used that very day, to pray to god for her death when the box became so hot that her skin felt like it would peel.

She misses him, which is odd. She doesn't even know him. And yet, she misses the smile and the odd way that he talked. She misses seeing Django with a purpose, something that was so visible and clear when he stood next to the man. She misses knowing someone other than Django who, despite his job, was a good, decent man.

Eventually, when they find a town that doesn't throw rocks at them or demand that they get off their horses, they decide to settle.

It's hard at first. They live in a tent at the edge of town and Django grabs work when he can get it. She washes the clothes of the men in town in a nearby stream, and tries to ignore the women that gossip about her and insinuate bedroom activities with their husbands that she does not appreciate. The other black women share their food and laugh with her when she washes. She begins to feel normal, if not loved, and that she might have found her home.

It's nice and the weather is not as cold. By the time the first summer comes into effect, she starts to realise that perhaps their duo was turning into a trio.

Django becomes a force, a sheer strength of the gods. He works all day and comes home to her, before spending all night building their house. She works as much as she can, but soon, her belly gets in the way and her ankles scream at the pressure. She begins the vomit on the dried paint, or down the newly created porch, or onto the freshly build staircase. She vomits so much that it's almost comical. The other black women laugh and don't judge her when she vomits on the washing she just cleaned.

And then, the house is built. And there is screaming inside it, although the screaming isn't from pain but from the mouth of a small creature that encompasses all the love she has for her husband.

Eventually, the years pass and the town grows. There are more black people on their side of town than there are white people in the area. They drive the industry and work for good money. They have the freedom to say yes and no and to own their houses and farm their own food.

Django calls their daughter princess, and she giggles at the nickname. He tickles and hugs her and they laugh until they're too tired to do little more than eat or sleep.

One night, she listens in on their story time and can hardly tear herself away from the images of dragons and mountains and great Kings from northern lands. She wonders where he heard such a story, how her Django had come across a story of such strange names and events? The Doctor, of course, but she wonders why her husband remembered it and committed it to memory.

He's sad when he comes to bed that night. Melancholy. She rubs his back and tries to sooth him, but his mood doesn't lift.

She listens to her husband snore and her daughter shuffle in her sleep. She wonders whether she will dream about the whips tonight.

The house is silent and the crickets chirp in the night, just as they always have.

She dreams of a mountain, in a cold land, and fires and smoke around her. The heat intensifies until she is back in the box in the ground, naked and trembling. The hot metal is sizzling her skin, melting her flesh while the white men point and laugh at her shame and nakedness.

She wakes, gasping in the night, her nightdress stuck to her back from sweat.

Her Sigurd sleeps beside her, so tired from the day.

A princess rests near them, dreaming of beautiful things and playing with her father.

She thinks of Brynhildr and the ring of fire. She thinks of waiting to be rescued and the panic and terror in the woman's heart as the smoke grew thicker and blacker.

She wonders if she was worth rescuing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ DU ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**AN: **Please let me know if you enjoyed it by leaving a review. I would love to hear some thoughts on how to improve. Thank you for reading, it is much appreciated.


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